


The Story of Jim

by Quatschkatz



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quatschkatz/pseuds/Quatschkatz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Are monsters born or made?  A sort of fairy tale about the origins of Jim Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of Jim

Once there was a girl named Agatha.  She lived outside of Dublin, in a nondescript area, with homes that were plain and people that were boring.  Agatha was someone who dreamed of more, but was destined for less.  She was one of many children.  She was neither pretty nor deformed.  There was nothing special about her and never would be.  She existed and that was all.

One day, someone saw her for the first time.  The old man who lived at the end of the street was a monster.  Everyone knew this.  The monster spoke to Agatha.  She came closer.  The next day he spoke to her again and she came closer still.  On the third day, she went to him and came into his lair.  It was filled with wonders.  His dragon hoard held many treasures and he shared them with her.  He told her stories and secrets.  He showed her many things.  He told her she was his special angel.  She believed him and shared her only treasure.  The other children told her he was dangerous.  They said he was weird and evil.  They said he kept bones in the cellar. Agatha knew better.  He made her into something more.  Then one day he was gone.  They said he hurt children, did nasty things to little boys.  Men with guns came and shouted, but he would not be taken.  He and his hidden riches burned, his lair a funeral pyre. 

Now Agatha had a secret, she carried a gift.  They shouted and yelled at her, asked where it came from but she would never tell.  She swelled and ripened till she burst.  And finally, she had her own special angel, a son.  Her family was ashamed and sent her away.  She and her baby lived in a ramshackle home, on the edge of town where nothing grew.  The baby was weak and sickly.  He never smiled and cooed like the other babies.  But still he ate and grew bigger.  And as the baby grew, so did she, comforted and nourished by chocolate, cakes and junk.  She brought it all into her body and spun a cocoon to protect herself.  The stories were all she had left.  She wished for new stories and waited all day for new magic.  The boy lay in his cradle, with no one and nothing for comfort, aside from the stories.  At night she would take down the book, the other gift from the monster she loved.  She read the stories to the boy and they became his treasures too. 

Agatha lived in her stories.  She couldn’t bear to leave them.  But the world and the men with guns always came.  The boy must be fed.  The boy must learn.  The boy must go outside and face the world or they would take the boy away.  She made the boy do it all alone.  She needed only to eat and listen.  The world and its children were cruel to him.  His clothes were odd.  He smelled of trash and death.  He spoke in strange whispers.  So many caring types tried to heal him, but he was broken for too long.  The closer they got to him, the more they feared, for they could see the monster underneath the cracks.  He had his mother, who grew and grew like Alice eating the mushroom.  And the stories. He hated the one, and loved the other.

Then there was fire, which held life within its motion.  And there was pain, which was life its self.  He chose to give both to his mother.  The fire began in his bedroom, hidden in a corner.  He snuck down the stairs while mother listened to her stories.  He left the crumbling shack and waited.  The smoke filled the top floor.  Now mother smelled it.  She cried, “My boy!”  Her fear was enough to move her. She struggled to stand.  She rose slowly.  She begged and pleaded with her baby to come, but only silence answered.  Sobbing in fear, she climbed the stairs, wailing all the while.  He listened to every one of her cries.  The smoke was heavy and the tongues of fire lapped the roof.  The beauty of flame was enveloping the wretched hovel, transforming it into something more.  And still she climbed, crying “My boy!  Where are you my baby?”  She looked everywhere, crying “My baby, come to me!”   In the peace of the outdoors, he listened and smiled. 

Now the fire was stronger than anything else, bigger than a castle, more powerful than a dragon.  Now the fire broke the whole house, blowing it down like cards.  And in the breaking, the screams of Agatha, the mother, shrieking for her baby boy.  Now there are no words, only howls of fear and agony.  He could nearly see it, her body tumbling through the shattered floor, bursting on the broken rubbish of her life.  A final dying wail and now just the crackling of the flame.  It was all so beautiful.  He was so happy, but then, he remembered.  The stories, he had forgotten the book of stories.  Now he cried in rage.  The most precious, the only treasure in his life, lost forever.  He had been so careless, he had only himself to blame.  It was a hard lesson to learn, he would never be so thoughtless again.  He thrust his hand into the flame, a reminder for the future.  The blisters and scars would whisper – remember.

Now he was the greatest of all heroes, the Orphan.  Alone he would conquer the world.  First he must fall, down below the mundane, to the dark and the magic and stories.  He found his true home, the realm Below.  Now there were real monsters.  Finally he felt fear.  And he learned their secrets and tricks.  He copied the bad men and made himself more terrifying then all of them.  Death obeyed his demands.  He ruled the Underworld, the land of the forgotten and broken.  But now it was not enough.  The Orphan must return to his home and take his rightful place as ruler of them all.  He clawed through the filth that buried him and stood upright.  Now in the light of the sun, he would spin his web.  He would control every string and make the world dance.  So he took a name.  And the world met Jim Moriarty for the first time.

 


End file.
